Knowing
by Silver Writing Bug
Summary: Sure, Naruto knew. That didn't mean he wanted to know, though.


**An abstract piece with no purpose. **

**I don't own Naruto.**

He knew. He knew lots of things.

He'd always _known. _How could he not? He wasn't stupid—contrary to popular belief.

He knew about Kyuubi.

Of course he'd known.

It was simple logic—there was no possible way to kill a demon as powerful as the nine-tails, even for someone like the Fourth. The seal that appeared on his stomach _only _when he used chakra was a big pointer, as well as the whiskers on his cheeks and the elongated fangs. And, of course, his heightened senses; somehow, he was able to smell and hear what no other human beings could.

He'd known about the Fourth, being his father.

The revelation about Kyuubi had sparked this thought. After all, the Fourth was an honorable man; there was no possible way he'd force any child but his own to go through the agony he would. Also, of course, their facial similarities. He was honestly surprised no one else had noticed it, what with the Fourth's _face _staring down at them all from above; he assumed that it was because the people didn't want to sully the memory of their hero as being the father of the demon child.

He'd known about Sakura hating him, not that it was hard to tell.

She couldn't be more obvious—even if she hadn't turned him away with sharp words and a hard smack he would've known. First of all, her parents were civilians. They would've _obviously _warned her about him, how he was a demon and a danger to everyone around him. Second, he knew her type; she had eyes for only one person, and that one person was someone with good looks and high status, in the form of a 'Sasuke Uchiha'. Not that he liked her anyway.

He'd known how infatuated Hinata was with him.

Honestly, this one was a no-brainer. She _fainted _whenever he looked at her too long or even just poked her, and whenever she didn't faint her face was always painted with a dark red blush. And, of course, her stuttering, which was _supremely _irritating because she could knock the _stuffing _out of him whenever she wanted to do so.

He'd known he was weak.

He knew it whenever he felt his feet move sloppily all over the ground wherever they _weren't supposed _to be; he knew it when he saw that smug face Sasuke wore whenever he was beaten into the ground. He knew it when the regular clones he'd created flopped lifelessly on the ground, and he knew it whenever he lost an important battle. There was a reason for that, at least. Sort of. The academy instructors had sabotaged his training—after all, they couldn't have the _demon_ getting too strong, now could they?

He'd known that Sasuke would eventually leave them.

Sasuke wanted power, and he wanted it fast, and he would do anything, _anything _to obtain it (Naruto had no doubt that Sasuke would find a way to achieve it). Even by less than legal means. The village was simply too straight and narrow, not to mention most people were unwilling to train a power hunger condescending brat. People outside of the village would be delighted to have someone like that under their thumb, especially a blood-line user like Sasuke.

He'd known exactly how Jiraiya was going to die.

Well, not _exactly _how he was going to die—he couldn't have possibly known anything about how Pain had gone in and killed his only living family member, but he'd known what the circumstances would be. His Godfather, while very experienced and powerful, was getting older and _still _sticking his neck out way too far. Jiraiya simply should've settled down and managed his spy network from a safe distance. At the very least he shouldn't have marched onto Pain's doorstep with very little information about the Akatsuki leader's abilities.

He knew lots and lots of things, and he knew them by simply opening up his eyes and looking. He'd known about Kyuubi, the Fourth, Sakura, Hinata and Sasuke when he was about four, and he figured the rest out through time. And there was some little things he knew, too; he knew where the old war veteran Danzo went in his spare time; he knew about the secret passageway in the memorial stone; he knew what kind of plants grew in the forest; he knew about the ghost that protected the village; he knew about the Third's secret, ignoble vices (Icha Icha Paradise), and he knew the darkest, most hidden secrets in Konaha, to the secret affair the fish-merchant's wife was having and the under-the-table drug dealing of the supposedly pure priest of Konaha.

But that didn't mean he _wanted _to know.

He wanted to be ignorant; he wanted to be pure and free of such troubling thoughts, and he wanted to let his mind soar above the clouds, unburdened by heavy weights such as the ones he carried. He wanted to live a normal childhood—as normal as a child ninja could get, full of ideals and ignorance and pure stupidity. No, he didn't want to be intelligent, where people would look at him and go, _'Oh, there's the demon. I hear he's a clever one—stay away from him; he could be plotting to kill us all.' _He wanted people to trust his naïve, unfettering façade without question or thought of being stabbed in the back.

So he pushed his intellect to the back of his mind, and tried to be ignorant and pure and free; he tried to be innocent and naïve, trusting and loyal to a fault. He _tried _to miss the mark in his skills, to fall back and then rise up from the ashes of his failure triumphant; he tried to act as an idiotic, easily manipulated oaf, so the people would trust him irrefutably. And for the most part, his act worked. He fooled everyone; the Hokage, his Godfather, his teammates, his friends, everyone; he fooled everyone who truly mattered, except for one person.

He could not _ever _fool himself.

He always managed to dupe himself for a little bit; for a while he could imagine himself as the innocent, idiotic, naïve person he made himself to be, but then something would pull him out of his blissful illusion. Perhaps it was a simple observation, a thought that would dance at the edges of his mind before coming forth, shocking even himself with its ingenuity. Sometimes his mind, which he'd found to be incredibly logical, would take one look at a battle plan and begin to analyze it, looking at every possibility before coming up with the best course of action (and of course the plan would be infallible).

That's when his thoughts—his _true, _intelligent thoughts would come through and begin to fill his head, shaking his façade to the very core. It would take everything he had just to keep the front up as he sorted out his mind. He thought that it would get easier as he got older; after all, after keeping it under such tight wraps his intelligence would begin to dull, correct? (Wishful thinking). However, as he got older his mind seemed to strengthen, becoming harder and harder to control and hide.

He didn't want to be smart.

He didn't want everyone to be suspicious of him.

He didn't want to be the one to come up with all the strategies, who would look after a team just because of his ingenuity.

He didn't want any of it.

He'd never wanted it.

But he couldn't fool himself—meaning, of course, that he wouldn't be able to fool the rest of the world forever.

For now, though, he could pretend.

For now, he could fly above the trees unchained by worries and untainted by troubles.

Soon, though, very soon, he would come crashing to the ground.

And the moment when he hit the earth would be the most painful moment in his entire lifetime.


End file.
